


The Stain'd Windowsill

by Lukoni



Category: Quick and the Dead (1995)
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Chains, Dinner, Introspection, Light Sadism, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Non Consensual, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lukoni/pseuds/Lukoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Herod has kept his erstwhile comrade on a short leash for the duration of the contest. Tonight, the last night before their final gunfight, it gets even shorter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stain'd Windowsill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belmanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I'm so happy to have gotten this prompt, as I have had similar thoughts about this film for quite some time. (Not sure anyone could NOT?) Thanks for requesting it and thanks for not needing a happy ending (although I was briefly tempted to do a Christmas crackfic with all sorts of schmoop just to see if it could be done)!! It's not exactly what you asked for, and may be a tad dark, but I hope you like it anyway....

John Herod was man who, if nothing else, was in control of his actions. So it came as a surprise to him more than anyone else present, that instead of ordering his prisoner back to his accustomed place on the saloon boardwalk, or even the fountain in the street, he gestured for his men to take the unfortunate man up the stairs and into his house. His refuge more like. An ostentatious symbol of power on the outside, its inner domains were closely guarded and access allowed only to a few. 

With his guest securely chained to a chair at the dining room table and under guard, Herod ventured upstairs to change for dinner. As he tucked in his crisp white shirt, he reflected that he must have been overcome by a freak bout of nostalgia, something which rarely, if ever, had troubled him before. But Cort would be dead in the morning, and this was his last chance to spend any time with his errant apprentice. John Herod was not a man given to self-delusion, however, and Cort’s words from just minutes earlier still rang in his ears: “Is this what you wanted all along? Why don’t you come and get some?” 

If truth be told, in the mysterious way the mind had of cloaking the lupine desires of the soul in the harmless guise of a sheep, perhaps this _was_ what he wanted all along. For from the minute Cort had been hurled back into his life through those saloon doors, Herod had to admit life had gotten sweeter; the blood coursed through his veins like a pounding river rather than the docile, drought-ridden stream it had been of late. And the nights—the stimulation provided by just a glimpse of Cort bound in iron, forced to submit to the scrutiny, disdain, and even enmity of the every passing townsperson had taken him by surprise, but it was a welcome surprise. He would have firmly denied to any and all the waning of his manly appetites as he left his sixth decade behind, but he was not unaware of the increasing difficulty he experienced in taking his pleasures from the local population. Scared and weak as they were, there was no challenge in it anymore. Even the lady gunfighter, while strikingly handsome and full of fire, did not elicit a response even half as strong as watching Cort writhing in the dirt, stretching his manacled hands for the glass of water just beyond his reach.

Herod glanced out the window at the memory and frowned as he glimpsed traces of his essence on the sill. A shameful act, his righteous father would have said, and yet who knows what that man himself had done in his private office overlooking the town square—perhaps he had performed the same deed to the sight of the corpses hanging from his gallows. He turned away to attend to his tie, reminding himself to tell Rosita to be sure to scrub the windowsills in the morning.

The sight that greeted him upon his return to the dining room presented an interesting contrast to the scene just a few nights before. Then a beautiful woman sat in that chair, willingly tantalizing, soft and inviting, but afraid and full of deceit. Now a man, her killer, was in her place, beaten and filthy, but deadly as a coiled rattlesnake and fearless—as fearless as Herod himself had taught him to be. There was really no contest which companion he preferred. The heat was already rising in his blood, his flesh tingling with the promise of what was to come.

“I knew you’d kill her,” Herod said with great satisfaction, taking his seat at the head of the table. He raised his glass and silently toasted this praiseworthy accomplishment. Cort cast his gaze to the floor, shame warring with anger. Herod beamed. He gestured to Rosita, always waiting in the wings, and soon dinner was served. 

Cort eyed the food warily, like a wild animal approaching a campfire, not wanting to trust but so hungry that instinct gives way to need. Just like the night they’d first met – a ragged, starving boy full of anger at a world that had no use for him. Herod would have dismissed him out of hand but for the look in his eye that spoke not just of hunger of the body, but of the mind and the soul. This was a boy that was not going to give up and drag his feet in the wake of fate; he was ready to take the reins of his own destiny, and Herod recognized that he was the one who could teach the boy how to do it. He might not have had the inclination to do so had the boy not pulled a gun on him to try and steal his dinner, for the kid was fast, not fast enough to get the drop on John Herod, but enough to pique his interest.

The scene was quite different now, of course. With his arms restrained, Cort could not even reach his plate, let alone lift a fork to his parched mouth. But that same look of implacable tenacity still hung about him, making him a man to be reckoned with, despite his rebelliously growling stomach and dusty, torn-up clothing. And Herod had shown him the way once again. Because there was no more beautiful sight in this world than the sure, clean way that Cort’s gun cleared its holster—perfect economy of motion mixed with lightning speed. Cort had been deluding himself to think he could live life as a preacher, never touching a weapon again. If any man was born to kill it was Cort. Anyone who looked at him could see it, and now Cort could finally see it and knew without doubt that John Herod was always right. 

He smiled at this thought, then began on his steak. He took time to savor Cort’s helplessness before eventually allowing Rosita to come to man’s assistance. In her eerily silent way, she cut each bite of meat, speared it with the fork and brought it gently to his lips. There was a slight glimpse of pink tongue, bright against sun-browned skin, as he took the morsel into his mouth. 

“You can dispense with the fork, Rosita,” Herod ordered. Obedient as ever, she delivered the next piece of meat between her delicate fingers. Her movements were neat and efficient, reflecting a disinterest in the proceedings that characterized her time in his employ. He sometimes wondered if it was genuine. Cort accepted his treatment in silence, with a resignation that was not so much indicative of his acceptance of defeat, but rather the product of long experience in waiting out the whims of his mentor with patience. 

Over the course of the meal, as he watched Rosita’s dainty fingertips slip in and out of his prisoner’s lips, Herod felt his desire grow steadily, inexorably, one bite at a time, and it had little to do with the upcoming gunfight and much to do with the stain on his windowsill. The mistake, he admitted to himself, had been seizing Cort’s hair after the man had fallen at his feet. That simple gesture had been Herod’s undoing, committing him physically to a path he had thus far been merely guiding from a distance. But he’d pushed Cort to the breaking point, and the caged beast had broken free—a magnificent sight, one had to admit—and Herod had no choice but to put the beast back in his place, just as any tamer of lions must do. And such a lesson must come from the master’s hand, not a minion’s. An animal of this caliber deserved that much respect, at least. 

He took another bite and chewed slowly while he watched Cort swallow. He couldn’t help but focus on the muscles in Cort’s neck, seeing them in his mind’s eye flexing as he drew Cort’s head up and back, all that power under his control. A most stimulating feeling indeed.

With the meal complete and the table cleared, it really was time to send Cort back to his post. This plan, however, would not satisfy the growing hunger in his soul. He needed more from his his reticent companion, something more akin to his earlier outburst, something to break through the stoic mask. “There are a set of reins and a belt on my workbench,” he said to Rosita as she placed two cut crystal glasses before him. “Bring them to me.” While she was gone, he poured himself a drink, then moved the decanter and second glass to the sideboard. He fingered the key to the chains as he waited, circling behind Cort, making sure all was in place. His prisoner remained warily tense but silent. Rosita returned with the requested items. 

“That will be all for tonight,” he told her, and she disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. Alone, Cort spoke at last.

“Whatever you’re planning, John, it won’t change anything.”

Herod bent forward to speak softly in his ear. “What would I want to change? I’ve already won.” He knelt by the chair, unlocked the chains, then yanked Cort forward by the free end. His solid body sprawled across the table at which they had so recently dined. Herod pulled the free end taut and fastened it to the massive decorative andiron he’d had shipped directly from London. Herod strolled back to stand behind Cort, who was subtly trying to right himself. Herod pushed him back down with a well-placed hand on his back. 

“I’ve proven to you that you are a cold-blooded killer, Cort. You needed to know that before you die. There’s nothing I hate more than a hypocrite.” Reaching beneath Cort’s waist, he slowly unbuttoned the man’s trousers, letting them slide down the powerful legs to pool on the expensive, oriental carpet. Smallclothes followed. There was a moment when it seemed the prisoner might rebel and attack his host, but the pressure of a gun barrel against a particularly soft portion of his anatomy quelled all resistance. Herod pulled off the battered shoes with the clothes, leaving the man bare-assed and bent over. To prevent any further acts of defiance, he used the reins to tie each ankle to the pedestal of the table. The effect of this position was to force his legs apart and leave his most precious parts exposed and indefensible. A most bracing sight. 

With his guest fully secured, Herod took his time to walk fully around the table and examine the tableau he had created, slowly sipping his cognac. It was a pity there was no time to call in a painter, or at the very least old Carl and his camera. Few sights in the world deserved to be immortalized as much as this one did. He ran a finger over the curve of one hip, and chuckled when Cort flinched away from him. It was like an engraved invitation. 

He took hold of the belt now, the tooled pattern not yet complete, but promising to be a fine example of his skill with stamp and mallet. Tonight he would create a different sort of design. Taking up a position just behind and to the right of the unfortunate Cort, he took a single wrap of the supple leather around his hand then swung, laying a broad red welt on the pale flesh before him. The half-suppressed grunt from Cort was a music even sweeter than the harp Rosita played for him of an evening. He placed a dozen more strokes on the buttocks before moving down to encroach on the tops of the thighs. A strangled gasp told him he’d hit a particularly tender spot, and he aimed for it again.

As satisfying as the sound of leather on flesh was, it was the impact that resonated up his arm and into his shoulder that brought true satisfaction. The physical manifestation of the heart’s desire, engaging both body and mind together. He was overcome by a feeling of almost floating, as if the sands of time were running out beneath his feet and he remained unaffected, standing firm and strong outside of the demands of the world beyond his doors, nay, beyond this very room. And he wanted more. Craved more. The touch of the leather was too remote. The sight, the sound of Cort’s pain not intense enough – he needed to feel it intimately, flesh against flesh. 

His flesh was, indeed, nearly alive in its own right; it pulsed hot and hard all over his tall frame to culminate between his legs, demanding its own form of satisfaction, something more immediate, not walled away behind a cold pane of glass in a dull wooden frame. And so it was that, despite his legendary self-control, John Herod was defeated by his own body, which had finally mutinied against its rigorous, uncompromising master. As if he had no choice in the matter, he tossed the belt away and stepped up close behind Cort, so close he could feel the heat from the welts radiating through the cloth of his trousers. He pushed his groin against the damaged skin and his eyes fell shut at the pleasure that seized hold of him. He let out a long, slow breath while he let the sensation seep through him.

“John. Don’t do this, John,” came Cort’s voice, interrupting the quiet cracking of the fire and the singing of his veins. It carried all the calm authority of a man trying to reason with a recalcitrant child, but underneath ran a tremor of desperation.

“Isn’t that what I said to you, Cort, when you left? How much good did that do?” With that thought came the bitter memories of betrayal, and corporeal desires now coalesced with spiritual demands. He pulled open his trousers, took out his throbbing organ and with a perfunctory spit polish, rammed it into the restrained vessel in front of him. Cort’s anguished cry was distantly heard but deeply felt, the connection between their bodies now so intimate that the slightest movement from the man beneath him was instantly transmitted to him, like a rider bareback on a horse.

He felt the years of resentment pouring out of him with every thrust. It was the sweetest retribution for the pain Cort had caused. For of all things experienced in his tumultuous life, nothing had torn at his soul more deeply than the fact that Cort had chosen God over John Herod. Killing him would be sweet, but this, he felt sure, was going to be the sweeter memory—the one he could relive with relish in the dark hours of the night when he reviewed his life’s accomplishments. The way Cort’s flesh felt beneath his fingers, slick with sweat and solid; the little jolt made whenever a thrust pushed Cort’s hips into the rim of table; the small grunts of pain that Cort could not fully suppress. All of these he would recall at his leisure, in his bed, but most of all the tightness that engulfed him, better than any womanly hold he had yet experienced. It inflamed his desire beyond measure, swelling his manhood until he felt like it might burst, driving him to press forward ever harder, ever deeper, like a locomotive relentlessly steaming its way to its immutable destination, heedless of any obstructions in its path.

At last he reached the ultimate fruition of his endeavors, exploding into the writhing form beneath him with a burst of white light behind his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his arms on Cort’s back while he regulated his breath and reveled in the final tingling sensations that coursed through his body. Eventually he rose, pulled away, putting his clothes to rights and focusing his thoughts outward once more. He freed his prisoner from his inelegant position, and perched on the edge of the table to watch him dress awkwardly with hands manacled and body still shaking from its recent toils. It gave Herod great pleasure to know that in the morning Cort would not be able to face him down without being plagued by the aches and pains inflicted by him tonight.  
He wanted the last thing not just on Cort’s mind, but on Cort’s’ body, to be his own mark, the mark of a teacher, a mentor, a master. His only master.

Cort moved slowly, carefully, but he was not broken. That much was clear. His preacher eyes showed the disappointment of a man morally superior looking down upon one who has failed to learn the lessons of the righteous. His gunfighter eyes showed wariness and determination. But his human eyes, those that reflected a man at his most basic and uncomplicated, showed exhaustion. It would be very interesting to see which one would win come morning.

He pulled Cort to the door and called for Ratsy to come take him away for the night. 

As dawn approached and sleep continued to elude him, Herod soothed himself with the comforting routine of cleaning and checking his pistols. He had brought Cort here now, during the contest, so that he could fight him, so that he could enjoy the sense of fear that facing only Cort could bring. For life in this town had grown dull and that led to inattention, which led to mistakes, which inevitably led to one’s downfall. But this night he had discovered something even more invigorating than a gunfight. His eyes drifted to that spot on the windowsill, invisible now in the darkness. It was a disquieting discovery for his well-ordered life, but as with all things John Herod had yet encountered, it could be mastered.


End file.
